


Bristol Down

by splix



Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: Christmas Eve, 1940.





	Bristol Down

*

 

A poster hung on the wall just to the right of the Christmas wreath above the coal hearth. Red and green like the wreath, dappled in the candlelight that lent only the feeblest illumination to the tiny waiting room, it bore the image of loaded coal cars and implored: _FOOD, SHELLS AND FUEL MUST COME FIRST – if your train is late or crowded, DO YOU MIND?_ Another poster hung on the opposite wall, a harried-looking soldier asking _IS YOUR JOURNEY **REALLY** NECESSARY?_

Jamie shifted, wrapped himself more tightly in his coat – the Sea Mills station, despite the coal fire, was draughty – and frowned. As if all of England was hell-bent on pleasure excursions, off to the seaside for fish and chips and toffee apples at the end of December with a war on.

His stomach made a plaintive noise. He suddenly wished he'd accepted Mrs Fairley's invitation to supper. He hadn't wanted to strain the family's resources, but the train wasn't due for hours and Sea Mills' three pubs had been either closed or indiscernible in the darkness of the blackout. There was no question of attempting to go to Stoke Bishop or Westbury-on-Trym – there wasn't time to walk, and there wasn't a taxicab to be found on Christmas Eve. Damned poor planning from the head of England's so-called best soldier's charity organisation. 

"Is your journey _really_ necessary?" said a mock-stern voice near his ear.

Jamie's scowl deepened. "I'm beginning to wish this one hadn't been. You haven't got a sandwich tucked in that bag of yours, have you? A slice of parkin? Some humbugs?"

Jim clapped Jamie on the shoulder and came round the bench, dropping his battered leather bag, very much like a schoolboy's book-bag, beside Jamie. "Afraid not, old man. Sorry. But look here, we'll be home by…midnight." He sighed a little. "Perhaps the station mistress has something? I'll ask."

"No need," Jamie said shortly.

"Jamie. I'll ask." Jim crossed the room and spoke quietly to the elderly station mistress, who peered at him with disapproval and then shook her head. Jim came back to the bench and sat. "Nothing," he said. 

"I didn't think they'd have anything," Jamie replied.

"I asked her if they sold tea or sandwiches. From the look on her face, you'd have thought I'd asked her to produce a seven-course meal complete with violinist and candelabra." Jim glanced at his wristwatch. The radium dial glowed softly in the dimness. "The train isn't due for another few hours, and it'll probably be late at that. Should we go back to the Fairleys? We could give them some money – or I have my ration booklet in my bag –"

"No," Jamie said hastily. "No, I shouldn't like to do that. Unless you don't think you can wait."

"I'll be fine," Jim said. "This is the last of the resettling before the new year, correct? Or have you got more?"

"Tim Fairley was the last of mine. Billy and his wife are doing one as well, a blind chap headed out to Nottinghamshire. He'll be working at a…a parachute manufactory, I think. Incidentally, thanks for accompanying me today."

"Not at all. They were lovely. And you know I'm only too happy to help you – you're stretched so thin lately."

"It's just that you're so busy yourself," Jamie said, more peevishly than he'd intended. Well, it was true; not only was Jim still with Herald Press, he had also taken it upon himself to form a sort of literary society with other publishing types. They saw it as their goal to nurture the arts during wartime and supported writers and poets in what ways they could. One young poet, Arthur Hardie, was clearly one of Jim and Jamie's ilk and was even more clearly infatuated with Jim. Jim, for his part, hadn't seemed to discourage Hardie's attentions, but it was beneath Jamie's dignity to protest. It wasn't as if Jim were unfaithful, after all – merely friendly. 

Too bloody friendly.

"I'm not too busy to help you when you need it," Jim said, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

Jamie shrugged. "It's not so bad. Other men have far more on their plates, I think."

"Hmm. How many other colonels are personally escorting men to their jobs in their free time?" Jim poked Jamie in the side. "Small wonder you're famished."

"It's more of an honorary commission," Jamie said. He'd accepted the post of Liaison to Disabled Ex-Service Men for the Ministry of Labour after much persuasion and on the condition that he would abandon it immediately after the end of the war. He did what he could with St Sebastian's, but suddenly directing the lives of thousands of crippled veterans, who should have by rights been entitled to proper employment from the very first rather than the miserable pensions they received, seemed fraudulent somehow. 

He did enjoy wearing a uniform again, however. Regimentals were comforting, and always smart and felt correct. They saved him from the tedium of choosing clothes in the morning. Too, Jim had always seemed to enjoy the sight of him in a uniform, though lately he hadn't reacted favourably.

"You're far too modest," Jim said. "And too thin." He frowned worriedly at Jamie and touched his hand, then glanced at the station mistress, who sat upon her perch, knitting, her needles clicking in the quiet.

"What have we got at the house?"

"Kippers. Powdered eggs. Bread. Margarine. Tea. Tinned vegetables. Potatoes. Oh, and a bit of fish pie and Christmas cake, from Mr and Mrs Donovan, in thanks for trimming their hedges."

"We'll eat like kings," Jamie remarked. "At three in the morning."

"All the better to appreciate our own good fortune," Jim chuckled, and took a sheaf of papers from his bag.

"What are you working on?"

"Oh, it's only a reprint – Dostoyevsky – but I'm having trouble adjusting to the new galleys. Have a look. The margins are tiny and the typeface is so cramped, it's –" 

"Mm." Jamie gave the sheets a cursory look.

"Thanks for your interest," Jim muttered.

"You asked me to look – I looked," Jamie retorted quietly, though Jim's barb stung. "I've seen galleys before."

"Well, these are –" Jim sighed. "Never mind."

Jamie stared unhappily at his hands. More and more, their conversations had been like this: short, snappish, trailing off into impatience and silence. There were still affectionate touches now and then, still occasional bits of banter, but how long had it been since they'd kissed or coupled, how long had it been since a simple embrace had brought them together? At night they took up opposite sides of the bed like two cats staking out the furthest territorial corners of a room; by day they scarcely met each other's eyes.

Jamie hated every moment of it. He hadn't the least idea of how to breach this frost, though. It felt too complete, too impenetrable, as absurd as that sounded. They'd been together nearly thirty years. Had they simply succumbed to some kind of inevitable dreariness or boredom? So many more couples nowadays were divorcing, and the male couples in their set seldom stayed together as long as Jamie and Jim had.

Surely there had to be a way to end the chill.

"Jim," Jamie said hoarsely, "I've got to…." He shook his head. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Jim heaved an impatient sigh. "Jamie, you –" He stopped. "Jamie?" he whispered. "Listen."

In the quiet, Jamie heard it: the faraway shrill whine of an air-raid siren. "Christ." He turned to the station mistress, who already had her coat on. "Madam, is there a shelter nearby?"

"Near St Edyth's," she snapped. "On the green. Put the candles out when you go." She snatched up her knitting, extinguished the candle nearby, and marched out the office door, slamming it behind her.

"Right," Jim said. "St Edyth's. Have you got your map?" He laughed bleakly.

"Can't be that far," Jamie said. "Come on." They put the candles out, leaving the room in almost total darkness but for the tiny coal fire still flickering away, and went out the front door into pitch blackness and freezing cold. "Take my hand."

Jim slipped his hand into Jamie's. "Did you bring your mask?"

"Hell. I forgot. Sterling example of preparedness."

"I forgot mine too. I won't tell if you won't."

Jamie took a few shuffling steps forward. "That bloody woman probably has an Anderson shelter three feet away. She might have offered to share."

"Perhaps she's got a family," Jim said soothingly. "Good Lord, Sea Mills isn't London, is it? They're serious about their blackouts here. I don't see spotlights – anything at all, do you? And it's so quiet still."

"No. And where are the ack-acks? You'd think we'd hear them by now." Jamie took another groping step forward. 

"I'm utterly disoriented, Jamie. I'm afraid we're going to plummet onto the tracks."

"Christ, I've got _some_ bump of direction. Give me a bit of credit," Jamie said, not at all certain which way the tracks were in the blackness, but remembering that they were a drop of about seven feet from the platform at one point.

"Perhaps we'd better go back inside," Jim said, then squeezed Jamie's hand hard. "Oh!"

Some distance away, a burst of greenish light sparkled in the night sky, illuminating what looked like a market hall. And then there was another sound, under the wail of the siren – a crackling, then an explosion, then a low rumble as a roof gave way. More green lights burst in the air, lighting the darkness like fireworks at a fairground. There was another explosion, another rumble.

"Incendiaries," Jamie said, and wheeled, pulling Jim along with him. "Back inside!" It was better to be inside than outside during an air raid; even if the whole bloody station collapsed, they were in less danger than they were outside, where they were vulnerable to fragments from bomb shrapnel, ack-ack shells, and incendiary fire. He saw the outline of the station and scrabbled for the door, throwing it open and yanking Jim inside. He looked round quickly – what was safest?

"The bench," Jim said. "We can overturn it – make a shelter."

"Good thinking." As they pushed the heavy wooden bench over, a nearby explosion rattled the walls of the station.

"It's stone," Jim said. "It won't burn."

Jamie smiled despite his anxiety. Trust Jim to know exactly what he was thinking. "Right. Let's wait this bloody thing out." A sharp crack came from overhead, and then a metallic clatter. "Jim, get beneath it!"

A brilliant greenish light flared, then another. There was a shower of sparks, and a huge weight struck Jamie's back. _Get down!_ he cried, or tried to, but a roar overtook his voice, and then a silence that blessedly filled the night.

*

 

"Jamie?"

He was on his back. He inhaled the scent of smoke, of blood, of spent explosives, of cold air. They were in the Bois de Troncs. No; he smelled the sea.

"Jamie?"

A firm pat on his face. He blinked, turned his head, and saw Jim's face in a warm orange glow. "Jim?"

"Yes. Lie still. You got hit in the head." Jim blotted Jamie's temple with his handkerchief; Jamie felt dampness and glimpsed a dark stain on the flash of white cloth. "It's not life-threatening, though. Just a nasty gash, from what I can tell."

"Mm." Jamie put a hand to his eyes. "The sirens have stopped."

"Yes. I just heard the all-clear."

Jamie tried to sit up and groaned. "Christ, my back!"

"Lie still," Jim cautioned. "I think you twisted it. If you'd broken it, I doubt you'd be able to feel your legs. Can you feel your legs?"

Experimentally, Jamie moved his legs and flexed his toes. "Yes. They ache, but I can feel them." He stretched out his hands and felt rubble: stone and bricks. "The fire. What's the fire? Bombs?"

"It's the bench," Jim said. "It's the only thing made of wood in the station – at least, the only thing that caught on fire, so far. Let's hope our luck holds until someone reaches us."

Jamie frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well – " Jim smiled ruefully. "We seem to be trapped."

"What –" Wincing, Jamie pushed himself up to his elbows, ignoring Jim's protests, and saw that they faced the door, but half the roof and part of the interior wall had collapsed onto the floor, impeding their exit. Not three metres away, the bench they'd overturned for protection burned merrily away, silhouetted against the darkness. Debris surrounded them everywhere. Jim was cut and scraped but seemed otherwise unharmed. Jamie looked him over. "Are you…oh, dear God. _Jim_."

Jim's right leg was caught beneath a heap of collapsed brick, the former station counter.

"I'm all right," Jim reassured him. "That is, I think my ankle's broken, but if I don't move, it doesn't hurt much."

"Doesn't hurt much!" Jamie tried to scramble up and groaned, clenching his teeth at the pain in his back. "Christ, I can't stay here – I've got to get help for you. Did the station mistress come back? Have you heard the fire brigade? Did you try shouting for help?"

"Jamie, you can't move," Jim said patiently. "Lie still. Someone will come to help. It's a small town."

"But your leg!"

"It's not the first time I've had a mangled pin, is it?" Jim said wryly.

Jamie let out a stuttered laugh. "No – no, I reckon not." He laughed again, then sobbed and pounded his fist against the floor. "Jesus _Christ_!"

"It's all right, Jamie. It's all right. We won't be here long, I promise." Jim stroked Jamie's hair, and Jamie saw for the first time that Jim's face was white and drawn with pain. What a clever liar he was. Didn't hurt much indeed. "It's only half eight. Maybe the railway is intact and we can still make the train to Hampstead."

"Oh, Jim…bloody hell. If you hadn't come, this wouldn't have happened."

"What – the bombs wouldn't have fallen? I didn't realise the Luftwaffe relied so heavily upon my presence here." Jim grinned, though the grin looked more like a rictus of pain.

"No, you wouldn't have got caught in this." Overwhelmed by remorse, Jamie caught Jim's hand and squeezed it tightly. He saw Jim's face contract in discomfort and eased the pressure of his grip. "Sorry."

"I wanted to be here with you."

Jamie looked away. "I don't know why."

"What on earth do you mean?"

Sighing, unable to meet Jim's eyes, Jamie shook his head. "Because I've been an ill-mannered brute, that's why."

Jim was silent for a long moment. "Yes. You have." He drew a sigh to match Jamie's. "Why?"

Jamie wouldn't answer. It was too difficult.

"Jamie?"

"That bloody poet," he finally whispered begrudgingly.

"Arthur?"

"So you do know," Jamie said with sour triumph.

"I know you don't like him. I know you were terribly rude to him at that party a few months ago, though I can't think why. He thought you were terribly impressive."

"He thinks _you're_ terribly impressive. I think he thinks you walk on water."

"Jamie!" Jim cried. "You're not jealous? When in God's name have I ever given you reason to believe…any reason at all to be jealous? Don't you trust me, my dear?" With a trembling effort, he took Jamie's hand. Tears stood in his eyes.

"Look at me, for Christ's sake," Jamie said gruffly. "I'm over fifty. I've got more grey in my hair than brown. I'm not firmly fleshed – scrawny is the word, likely. I can't fall without spraining my bloody back beyond all redemption. I don't…."

He plunged ahead.

"I can't make beautiful phrases like that poet of yours does."

Jim looked away, and lowered himself to the floor. Slowly, he pillowed his head on his arms, stifling a moan. He avoided Jamie's eyes – as well he did, for Jamie couldn't meet his – but by and by, he spoke, his voice shaking. "And is that what you think of me? That I would abandon you, or put you out on the kerb like yesterday's rubbish? How can you say that to me, Jamie?"

"I don't know," Jamie said softly, too ashamed to say that he missed Jim's constant caresses, his seductive teasing. "I thought you didn't fancy me any longer."

"Jamie, I simply thought you'd…." Jim turned back to Jamie effortfully. "No. I didn't think, did I. I've become complacent. My dear man, I've hurt you. You must believe I've never intended that."

"I know it," Jamie croaked. "I shouldn't have been cross with you, Jim. I'm sorry for it."

Jim wiped at his eyes and laughed. "Good Lord, I'm half frozen."

"Give me your hands," Jamie said, and chafed Jim's hands between his. How foolish he was, how small and petty, but he was glad to have spoken. 

Even well-banked fires needed tending.

*

What seemed hours later, outside, there was a soft scrabbling, and the sound of mingled voices. "Hello?" someone called. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

"Hello!" Jamie tried for a healthy roar, but his chest and back hurt too much, and he coughed explosively. Jim put a hand on his chest to steady him.

"Hello!" Jim shouted. "Hello! Help! We're trapped in here!"

"Righto! The door's blocked! Sit tight, we'll have you out in two shakes of a lamb's tail!"

"Thank you so much!" Jim breathed a sigh of relief. "Told you, old man."

Jamie chuckled assent despite the ache in his chest. "Dear God, I think I'm getting the grippe. Do you reckon we'll be spending Christmas in hospital, broken-down old nags that we are?"

A grin wreathed Jim's face, erasing the pain and the years. "As long as I'm with you, I'd spend Christmas at the very furthest ends of the Earth."

End

**Author's Note:**

> I have taken some artistic liberties; no bombings took place in Bristol on Christmas Eve 1940, and the Sea Mills railway station remains intact. 
> 
> Happy holidays to all. <3


End file.
